Who is the guy who said there's a way out?

    There is NO way out. All the exits are slam-bam shut.

        You're here, I'm here, we're all here, we're stuck,

There's nothing we can do about it — and most people don't even care.

We've got at least ten thousand things to pass the time, don't we? —

    Dance, cook, sew, screw, make money, shop, drink, babysit,

        Create music, build corporations, gossip, write poems,

Play cards, chess, watch football, lay up, climb mountains, smoke pot.

So what? I mean, we're finally all just a bunch of skeletons

    Frantically running around trying to tell each other

        What to buy, how to behave, when to eat, work, pee —

And all for what? And who cares? Your god? Mine? Theirs?

It's a big glitter-show, an enormous Barnum & Bailey production,

    Great for monkeys, politicians, priests and clowns,

        But if you ask me I'm sick and tired of hot dogs, television,

Travels to the Caribbean, skiing in Aspen, art galleries in New York —

Boredom is the last gasp of here, the first glimpse of there —

    Where supposedly golden light floods the soul with joy and bliss

        And holy-holy-holy unity with the cosmos, at which time

God either comes along and blesses you, or you're God yourself.

Personally, I'm lost. Can't find my way out. Can't find my way in.

    I love life, but have a tough time living. I love my body, my mind,

        And have all kinds of insight into Spirit, none of which

Has bought me a single ticket to heaven. I don't even feel relaxed.

God, nirvana, Valhalla, hell — it's not out there, it's in here. So what to do?

    I'm gonna get up early, grab my rod & reel and go trout fishing.

           If I've gotta live inside my own brain, at least gimme a few laughs.

Besides, if there's really no way out, I desperately need a good breakfast.